Let It Snow
by Measured
Summary: If there's no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow. Winter fluff in borrowed Canadian cabins. America/Ukraine.


Title: Let It Snow  
Series: Hetalia  
Characters: America/Ukraine  
Rating: PG-13  
Warnings: none?  
Summary: and since there's no place to go, let it snow, let it snow let it snow!  
Other notes: For the Het_exchange, for Miezen. prompt was: snuggling by the fire, using Ukraine's breasts as pillows. I did part of the Austria/Hungary prompt too, but I guess I'll just put it for the kink meme request you made for em. Oh, and there's a prequelish thing for this too, but I don't know when I'll finish that. Apologies if I missed anything, my computer is having issues so this was written quite fast hoping it wouldn't crash on me the whole time.

**.**

The cabin was technically Canada's, but he figured Canada wouldn't mind too much. They were brothers, and that meant that borrowing cars at 3AM in the morning for snack runs or cabins in the wilderness for romantic getaways, to say nothing of borrowed hoodies and video game systems – though Canada drew the line at his French Silk ties.

He'd have done the same for Canada, really.

Besides, it wasn't as if he would be missing it, considering he was over in France for the week to discuss some boring summit presentation they were doing. It was a one-room affair, mixed with the rusticness of old days and the comfort of modern times, because way up in the north, 'rustic' and 'hypothermia' were only a step away from each other. Canada had split plenty of wood for the fireplace last time, and it'd not taken that long to get the generator running. America kicked off his snowy boots at the door and made his way to the kitchen.. The windows were frosted over, and the place was freezing, but it was clean and cozy. There were little traces of France here there: in lacy checkered curtains, a new thick rug in the same colors, a new paint of white paint in the kitchen with a yellow trim of border at the ceiling to liven things up.

America wasn't too surprised, considering that France never could resist a decorating project. If America had a nickel for every time he woke up to find parts of his house redecorated, (as if the bad friends had knocked back a few too many while watching Trading Spaces and thought this was a bitchin' idea) then the national debt would be utterly paid off. And that was nothing, if the tales he heard from England were any indicator. Possible exaggerations aside, apparently whenever England went out of town, he'd find his residence gutted of his traditional English decor and find the latest decorating trends from Paris, complete with a handwritten note saying _You're welcome._

On the cupboard door was a note (as if Canada had read his mind): _Remember to go shopping and split wood after you're done, America. Last time I came up here, I had to drive through a blizzard for supplies and I ran out of wood before the day was over._

America smiled at that. Canada was pretty cool about stuff like that.

The cold weather had made his glasses fog over. He turned, and was to rub them off on his shirt when he caught sight of her. It was odd – a sort of magical tinge to her, all blurred from his misty glasses. He cleaned off the glasses, quick, and the blur settled into something even better.

Ukraine was dusted with snow on her short blond hair, little wisps of hair forming a halo of disheveledness that usually came from wearing a hat. Her brown coat was buttoned high, with the little purple and green sparkly scarf being the one bit of color in her drab winter clothing. It'd been a gift from him, actually – a payback for the scarf she had knitted him, though it'd been storebought because his attempts at knitting looked like some monster of a cheesy science fiction movie. She kicked off her boots, and put her brown purse (which was roughly the size of a small satchel) on the table. America watched her with what must have been a stupid (or stupidly awesome) grin on his face.

When she took off her brown coat, it revealed a downy rose colored sweater. Shirts tended to always be tight on Ukraine, much to her displeasure, and America's pleasure. This time, she hadn't even tried for something loose, and the cashmere sweater hugged every inch of her curves. He didn't get to see her in tight stuff often, let alone V-necks. Ukraine didn't dress sexily. She was too used to being ogled, groped, and catcalled that she wore only the classic, modest stuff. Her cheeks were flushed from the cold, a similar color as her sweater. He was staring like he'd never seen a girl before, like he'd been away from her for years and not just minutes.

"Ummm," she said uncertainly. "Something wrong? You don't like it?"

"Oh no," he said. "You look great!"

"Oh," she said, her cheeks turning even rosier. "I-I'll go make cocoa."

"Cool," he said. He stepped out of the kitchen, rubbing his arms as he did and made his way towards the fire. He really wasn't as suited for Winter, unlike Canada who seemed the thrive in – or at least tolerate really well – the winter weather.

He bent down to stoke the fire and get it crackling. He loved the scent of freshly cut wood, and the way his fingertips would blacken with soot. Really, there was nothing as comforting as sitting before a roaring fire with someone you loved.

"They're ready," she said. She brought his out, and let out a muttered _ouch_, but didn't drop them.

"Whoa, whoa, are you ok?" America asked.

She smiled ruefully. "Be careful, it's hot."

"You should go put that in a snowbank or something," America said.

She looked at her hand and flexed it. "I think I'll see if there's any ice."

"There's lots of ice, we're up north! Canada has ice like he's hoarding it," America called back.

The only reply was a chuckle. He blew on his drink and inhaled the sweet scent of warm cocoa. His had all three varieties his brother stocked, each from different pouches, and a taste revealed it was cooked with milk, not water. Ukraine was the sort of girl who memorized stuff like that, little details like how he liked his sandwiches and when the playoffs were for his allotted 'bad, inattentive boyfriend' time.

"You're awesome, you know that?" He called.

She leaned back, her hands holding an icepack to her palm, and smiled.

"Really awesome. Like, so awesome that Prussia is jealous," he rambled on. The only response he heard was a chuckle from in the kitchen. He also heard some rustling there, and when she returned, the icepack was gone.

"You ok?" America asked.

"Oh yes...it was only a small burn. I can barely feel it," she said.

"Lemme see," he said. She presented her palm to him, which was only a little red. He kissed it, just like she had kissed so many boo-boos over the years.

She looked tender, as if he'd given her some gift of unspeakable wealth. In fact, she looked like she might start to cry."

"What's wrong? Did it hurt?" America asked.

"No–No," she said, rubbing at her eyes. "It's just— No one's ever kissed _my_ wounds – it was always the other way around."

"Hey, it's a hero's duty," America said. "Comes with the job description. Along with being dashing and awesome."

She sat down next to him on the rug. America thought that it was a shame that France found beanbag chairs so tacky, because that would've been really comfy. But the rug was surprisingly plush, and the whole place was done quite well. If there was one thing France had, it was taste. According to him, he invented it.

They scooted together, and He reached up and stroked her face, leaving a smudge of black across her cheek. He resisted the urge to make a Snidely Whiplash mustache on her. He could be mature. Sometimes, at least. She chuckled as she brushed the dust from her face.

"Can you imagine what it'd be like if we had group family holidays?" America said. "Craziness. Wars would probably start. Hell, wars practically start at just my family's alone – but then, that tends to happen whenever France and England are around each other."

Ukraine laughed. "Oh, wars... Last year, Belarus took a knife to Lithuania for Russia's love. Latvia fainted, and Estonia had to carry him off to rest elsewhere so he wouldn't be trampled. Typical family gathering," she said.

"Weird, sounds about last Thanksgiving. Except it was just beer bottles thrown by France and England at each other," America said thoughtfully. "Every year Canada threatens to disown us again, but he always takes us all back as his family, even if we're drunk and mess up his house and make him embarrassed to be related to him," America said.

"I know. He tells me – in great detail I might add," Ukraine said with a smile. Her smile faded as she continued on. "That's to say nothing of you and my brother...there's always such mutual enmity between you too, even now it hasn't quite gone away."

"Not always, I mean, we were allies in the first world war. I don't hate him, but I do hate communism, and sometimes they get mixed up together until I can't tell them apart, you know? It took a few years after the fall for me to calm down and realize it, though," America said.. He shrugged, with a slight mischievous grin. "Though dating you isn't improving his and our relations. I expect the mutually assured shotgun talk anytime now."

"I am glad to hear you say this," she said. She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "So very glad..."

"Hey!" He said. "I love kisses from you, but cheek kisses are so last twenty years of unresolved sexual tension ago."

"You're right, you're right," she laughed. She cupped his chin and brought their lips together. The fire cast a warm glow over the room, and he felt a warm, tingly glow rising up in him. She tasted sweet, like cocoa and milk. It wasn't a passionate kiss, per se. Not like the kind teenagers did in back streets and backseats of cars, but one that seemed to simply speak of enjoyment without hurry – of being completely happy to simply go on, taking the night with hurry. It was a loving kiss, and when it broke, America pulled her back for just a little more.

He never could get enough.

The windows were lined with frost, but clear enough that he could just see the view outside. The snow was rising steadily higher, gathering in the pines and floating down in soft little downy waves. The moon was just high enough that it reflected off the stars. He had to admit, as much as he disliked winter in general, the north could be amazing this time of year.

"If it keeps up like this, we may be stuck here all week," she murmured.

"Nowhere else I'd rather be," America said. "Not even like, Cancun or something." He rested his head on her breasts. They were big, soft and warm. He could hear her heart beating here, so much that he could just drift off to sleep there, resting on her chest. She stroked his hair, softly loving him in her own, unassuming way.

The snow kept falling down, soundless through the trees.


End file.
